Heiress

by Janet Dailey

"No."

  "That's what I thought." He shifted her to rest a little higher on his shoulder and headed for the staircase. "Hello, Babs," he said calmly.

  Abbie twisted around to see in front of him. Her mother was halfway down the steps, staring at them in shocked bewilderment. "Momma, make him put me down," she demanded.

  "I'm kidnapping Abbie and taking her out for a night on the town, but first I have to get her cleaned up." The lazy confidence in his voice made it easy for her to imagine the look on his face. "If you could just tell me which bedroom is hers, I'd appreciate it."

  "The second door on the right at the top of the stairs."

  "Momma!" Abbie was shocked at her betrayal.

  "It will do you good to go out. You've been working too hard lately." Babs smiled at her as she walked by, continuing down the stairs.

  "See? Even your mother agrees with me."

  "My mother—"

  "Careful," MacCrea cut in. "After all, she is your mother. It's not nice to call her names." At the top of the stairs, he turned right and headed for the open door to her bedroom.

  "How dare you lecture me on manners?" Abbie protested angrily as he kicked the door the rest of the way open with his foot. "That makes about as much sense as some urban cowboy telling a real one how to crease his hat." Once inside the bedroom, MacCrea still didn't set her down or stop. "This is getting ridiculous," she muttered through her clenched teeth, the blood rushing to her head. "Will you just put me down?"

  "In a minute."

  Suddenly she had a glimpse of another doorway coming up—the one to her bathroom. "MacCrea, what are you doing?" she yelped in panic.

  He swung her off his shoulders and set her down in the shower stall. "I told you, I'm going to get you cleaned up," he reminded her complacently.

  Certain he was bluffing, Abbie faced him squarely. "You and whose army?" The taunt was barely out when he swung her around to face the shower head and reached for the faucets. "MacCrea, no! Don't!" She grabbed at his hand, trying to stop him from turning the faucet on. "My clothes, you can't!" She screamed in shock as a full blast of cold water sprayed down on top of her. Sputtering with anger and a mouthful of water, Abbie groped for the faucet handle and finally managed to turn it off after she was already drenched to the skin.

  Her hair was plastered in a wet sheet covering her eyes. She pulled it apart in the middle to glare at MacCrea, standing safe and dry outside the stall, his arms folded across his chest and his expression disgustingly smug.

  "Now you'll have to get cleaned up and change clothes."

  "Ya wanna bet?" She threw him a killing glance as she shook the excess water from her hands, but it didn't help. More just ran down from her wet blouse.

  MacCrea reached out a hand and rested it on the shower faucet, his towering bulk effectively blocking her exit from the shower. "Honey, I'll even give you odds," he drawled. "Believe me, I would enjoy scrubbing you from head to foot. Truthfully, that idea isn't half-bad."

  Just for an instant Abbie let herself fantasize that MacCrea was in the shower with her, his hands massaging the soap into her skin, lathering her breasts, and rubbing over her pubic bone. "Is that a threat, or a promise?" she countered, challenging him to go through with it at the same second that Jackson appeared in the bathroom doorway.

  The usually unflappable houseman stared at them, his lips parted in astonishment. "Jackson," Abbie whispered, suddenly realizing that her wet blouse was virtually transparent—and she wasn't wearing a bra.

  MacCrea glanced over his shoulder. "Did you want something, Jackson?" Inching sideways, Abbie shifted to hide behind MacCrea, feeling oddly embarrassed—for both herself and Jackson.

  "I. . . I thought. . . I heard a scream."

  "It was just Abbie," MacCrea explained. "Nothing for you to worry about. I'll handle it."

  "Of course, sir," Jackson replied, recovering his poise and withdrawing with just a hint of a bow.

  "Poor Jackson," Abbie said sympathetically. "I've scandalized him totally." As MacCrea laughed under his breath, she glared at him. "It's your fault. You're a bastard, do you know that?"

  "And you're an ill-tempered bitch." His mustache twitched with his half-hearted effort to contain the mocking smile that played upon his lips. "It looks like we were made for each other." Straightening, he took his hand away from the faucet. "Now get out of those wet clothes and get cleaned up."

  As he walked out of the bathroom, he closed the door behind him, leaving her alone. She stood there, dripping in the shower, unable to think about anything except that one remark he'd made. She wondered if he meant it. . . if he really believed they were made for each other, or if he had merely said it in jest. She didn't want it to be an idle joke. On the heels of that realization came the recognition that she was definitely in love with him—more in love than she'd ever been in her life. She felt suddenly afraid and defensive. She wasn't sure she wanted to love anyone this completely. It left her exposed and vulnerable.

  Hurriedly she peeled off her wet clothes and stepped under the shower again. As she ran the soapy sponge over her body, she couldn't rid herself of the thought that its pleasing roughness might have come from MacCrea's caressing hands if Jackson hadn't shown up. She tried to tell herself it was just as well, but it didn't ease the ache she felt.

  She stepped out of the shower and toweled herself dry, then wrapped another towel around her head and one around her body, sarong-fashion. As she walked out of the bathroom, Abbie saw the lacy underwear lying on her bed: bra, panties, slip, even a pair of sheer silk stockings. Then she heard the scrape of wire hangers being pushed along a clothes rod, the sound coming from her walk-in closet. Frowning, she walked over to it and saw MacCrea inside, going through her clothes.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Trying to find something for you to wear tonight." He pulled a red strapless dress of silk chiffon, layered in ruffles, from the rack. "This isn't bad."

  "I'll pick out my own clothes, thank you." Abbie took it from him and hung it back up, nagged by the thought that maybe he'd done this with other women he'd known in the past. She was surprised by the surge of jealousy and possessiveness she felt. She couldn't stand the idea of MacCrea being with anyone else.

  "Not that feathered thing, though," he said, slipping his arms around her middle, crossing them in front of her waist and pulling her back against him. The towel came untucked, but his arms held it in place. "You smell like a woman now," he murmured. "All you need is a little touch of perfume here." As he nuzzled the ridge of her bare shoulder, Abbie instinctively arched into a caress. "And here." He nibbled at the pulsing vein in her neck, sending hills of pleasure dancing over her skin. "And maybe a dab. . . here." His hand slid up between her breasts and hooked a finger over the towel, dragging it farther down as he traced a line down the center of her cleavage.

  When he lifted his head, breaking off the stimulating nuzzling of her neck, Abbie turned within the circle of his arms to face him, the towel slipping more. "Don't stop now. I was just getting warmed up."

  "Aren't you ever satisfied?" He gazed down at her with easy confidence.

  "Did I imply I wasn't satisfied? I am, you know. . . at least most of the time,” she added deliberately to tease him.

  "Only most of the time?" He arched an eyebrow in amusement. "That's not how I remember it."

  "Maybe you need to refresh my memory." She started unbuttoning his shirt.

  "If I don't walk out of this bedroom in five minutes, especially now that the shower's not running, what is your mother going to think? And Jackson?" His eyes darkened perceptibly as his gaze traveled rapidly over her face, her bare shoulders, and the ever-lower-drooping towel.

  "Momma is a woman. She understands. As for Jackson, I've already scandalized him. Besides"—she paused and slid her hands inside his shirt, spreading it open to expose his muscular chest—"it doesn't usually take longer than five minutes, does it?"

  "You little witch." His voice rumbled from deep insi
de his chest, richly laced with humor. "You are going to eat those words."

  "I'd like to," Abbie said, looking up at him with half-closed eyes, their lids weighted with passion. She reached for the buckle on his belt and MacCrea swore softly, achingly.

  Two hours later, they were seated at a table in the crowded steakhouse, waiting for their drinks to arrive. Abbie opened her menu and glanced over the selections.

  "Don't tell me you're still hungry," MacCrea mocked.

  "For food," she retorted. "Dessert comes later."

  "Now that's a proposition if I ever heard one." he chuckled as his glance strayed from her. "It looks like I'm about to have competition. Who is he? An old flame of yours?"

  Abbie turned, expecting to see someone she knew, but she didn't recognize the man in the dark cowboy hat banded with silver conchos. Yet he was grinning at her like a long-lost friend.

  "Hello, there. Remember me?"

  "No, I don't think so." Abbie stared at him, searching for some resemblance to anyone she knew.

  "Ross Tibbs. I sing here in the lounge. We met—" He stopped, uncertainty flickering across his face. "You're not her, are you? Across the room, I thought for sure—Man, you look enough like her to be her twin."

  "Well, I'm not," she replied stiffly, fully aware that he must have mistaken her for Rachel.

  "I'm sorry. I know I probably sounded like I was giving you the oldest line in the book, but you really do look like this lady I met named Rachel."

  "Don't worry about it, Mr. Tibbs. It's happened before." She was thinking about her father when she said that, remembering how many times he'd stared at her with that strange look in his eyes. . . as if he was seeing someone else.

  "I can sure understand that," the singer replied, smiling ruefully. "Again, I'm sorry I bothered you, Ra—" He caught himself and laughed self-consciously. "I guess I can't call you that, can I?"

  "The name is Lawson. Abbie Lawson."

  "Say, you wouldn't happen to be related to the Lawsons that have that Arabian horse farm outside of Houston?"

  "Yes. River Bend is owned by my family." But only for a little while longer, she remembered, feeling again the emotional tear over losing it.

  "I've been by the place a time or two. You've got some beautiful horses there. Didn't I see a notice somewhere that you're having an auction to sell them off?"

  "Yes. Next week." She didn't even have to close her eyes to see River Breeze's name on the list.

  "I might see you there," Ross Tibbs declared. "I always wanted to own an Arabian. Not that I could afford one, no matter how cheap they might sell. But a man can dream." As the waitress arrived with their drinks, he stepped to one side. "Listen, I. . . won't bother you any longer. If you get a chance after dinner, stop by the lounge and catch my act."

  "We'll see," MacCrea inserted.

  "Enjoy your dinner," he said, moving away from their table.

  Aware of the way MacCrea was quietly studying her, Abbie tried to shake off her brooding thoughts. Forcing a smile, she lifted her glass to him. "Since this is supposed to be a celebration, don't you think we should drink to your success?"

  "I do." He touched his glass to hers.

  Abbie took a sip of her bourbon and water, then cupped the moist sides of the glass in both hands. "You know, you still haven't told me any details about how this all came about—or who all you're dealing with. I know you met with Lane last week. Did he set the whole thing up?"

  For a fraction of a second MacCrea seemed on guard, his glance sharp, then the impression was gone. "Yes, he was involved in it from the start."

  "Maybe I was wrong about him," she conceded absently.

  "What do you mean?"

  "He was trying to find some way I could keep my filly, but she's being sold with the rest. I questioned how hard he really tried to help, but, considering what he's done for you, maybe there wasn't any way he could arrange for me to keep River Breeze."

  "So what happens now?"

  "I don't know." Abbie shook her head, frustrated by the blank walls that seemed to surround her. "I'm not sure I can afford to buy her. A filly always brings more than a colt, unless you have an outstanding stallion or show prospect. And with her looks and bloodlines, she's bound to bring anywhere from ten to twenty thousand dollars—maybe more." She tried to smile. "We'd better talk about something else. This subject is too depressing."

  "Did I tell you my regular toolpusher reported back to work the first of the week? He's on crutches, but he gets around pretty good. Which means I won't have to be on the site twenty-four hours a day."

  "I like the sound of that already."

  Chapter 20

  "What do you mean, she wants to come to the sale?" Abbie demanded, trembling with anger. "She—"

  Lane held up his hand to stop the tirade. "Before you fly off the handle, remember that this auction is open to the public. She has every right to come if she chooses to do so and you can't stop her. I am only advising you of her plans because I hope to avoid any ugly scenes such as the one that occurred the last time she was here."

  Recognizing that he had a valid point—it was a public auction—Abbie made an effort to control her temper, but she was almost choking on her own gall. "Why? What possible reason could she have to come to it?"

  "She's interested in buying some horses," Lane replied.

  Everything went still inside her. She was afraid even to draw a breath. "Which ones?"

  "She didn't say."

  What if one of them was River Breeze? Her anger turned ice-cold. For the first time since Lane had announced Rachel's plans to attend the sale, Abbie was thinking clearly, sharply, her mind racing swiftly to find some way to keep her filly from ending up in Rachel's hands.

  "I'd like to know what you're going to do, Abbie," Lane said.

  For a split second, she thought he was asking about the filly, then realized he was referring to Rachel. "Like you said, Lane, it's a public auction. Just tell her to stay away from my mother and me. Is there anything further we need to discuss?" she asked, an icy calm dominating her attitude.

  "No, I think we've gone over everything."

  "Good. I have work to do." Turning on her heel, Abbie pivoted away from him and walked briskly toward the stables. She had an idea, but she was going to need help to carry it out.

  She found Ben in one of the foaling stalls, doctoring a minor cut on the foreleg of a young stud colt. "You are a clumsy boy," Ben said to the colt, the soothing tone of his voice belying the chiding words he spoke. "You must learn not to run into things or you will hurt yourself very badly sometime."

  "I need to talk to you, Ben," she said when he released the colt. The horse charged across the large box stall to hide behind his mother, then peeked around her rump to eye Ben warily as he moved to the door.

  "That one is what your father called an accident waiting to happen." Ben stepped unhurriedly out of the stall and slid the door shut. "Always he is cutting and scraping himself."

  But Abbie wasn't interested in discussing the accident-prone colt. "We only have four days before the auction. Lane just told me that the grooms he hired will be arriving the day after tomorrow. Before they come, I want to get River Breeze out of here."

  "Get her out of here?" His gaze narrowed sharply. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying I don't want her anywhere on the farm when they arrive."

  "What is going on in that head of yours?" Ben asked suspiciously.

  "I've thought it all through," Abbie said. "When the Germans invaded Poland at the start of World War Two, what did you do? You evacuated all the horses from the stud and tried to find a safe place to hide them. That's what I want to do with River Breeze. If she isn't here, she can't be sold at the auction."

  "It is not the same, Abbie. There is no war. If you would take the filly from here, you would be stealing her. That is wrong."

  "Wrong. How could it be wrong to steal my own horse? And River Breeze is mine. You know that Daddy gave her
to me, regardless of what the ownership papers say," Abbie reasoned, maintaining her calm. Anger never got her anywhere with Ben.

  "This is true," he admitted reluctantly, still troubled by her proposal.

  "Then how can I be accused of stealing my own horse?" She could tell he was wavering. "I need your help, Ben, but I'll do it alone if I have to."

  "Where will you take her?" he asked gruffly.

  "To Dobie's. He's already said I could keep her in his barn once we move. Momma has already taken some of our things over to the house. We can simply tell him that we want to bring River Breeze over there now so we don't have to deal with moving her later. He doesn't have to know anything different."

  "You would lie to him?"

  "No. I simply wouldn't tell him the whole truth."

  "What do you think you will accomplish by doing this?" Ben tipped his head to the side and watched her closely.

  So far he'd been satisfied by her answers, but Abbie knew this one was critical. On it, he would base his decision. If she didn't obtain at least his tacit approval, she doubted that her plan would succeed.

  "I'll buy time," she said. "You know that I don't have much hope of outbidding anyone at the auction. If I can keep her hidden until after the sale, maybe I'll be able to buy her on terms. Or maybe we'll make enough money off the sale to pay off the creditors and she won't have to be sold. Don't you see. Ben, I have to take the chance that there will be a way?"

  There was a long pause before he answered, as if he were mulling over all her arguments in his mind. "We should move her tonight. . . after it is dark."

  Relief broke the iron control she'd exercised over her emotions. Abbie threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "I love you, Ben. I just knew I could count on you to help me."

  A crescent moon hovered above the eastern horizon, a curved blade of silver against a midnight sky studded with stars. Beyond the pool of light cast by the tall yardlight next to the broodmare barn, a dark-colored pickup truck with a two-horse trailer in tow was parked.

  Ben stood in the shadows of the vehicle, holding the lead rope attached to the filly's halter while Abbie smoothed the navy-blue horse blanket over the filly's back, concealing the silvery coat that stood out so sharply against the night's darkness. She fastened the belly strap and loosely buckled the chest strap, then drew the top of the blanket up to the arched crest of the filly's neck and fastened it securely under the throatlatch. The filly nosed Ben's shoulder as if seeking human reassurance about this unusual nighttime activity.